Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Iam not drunk.
I am festive.
Okay, maybe I’m drunk and festive, but that’s basically the same thing when you think about it. Like Santa Claus but with tits and unresolved trauma.
The cart rattles behind me, one wheel squealing like a dying rat every time I hit a crack in the sidewalk.
Inside? The treasures of war. Dollar Tree candles, construction paper skulls, a gallon of glitter, and what I swear is the last surviving roll of purple crepe streamers in the tri-state area.
Plus one suspiciously sticky Ouija board I found in the clearance bin, which may or may not be bleeding red syrup. I didn’t ask questions.
My battery powered jack-o’-lantern tucked in the cart lets out a hiss when we pass under the streetlight, and I giggle, swaying on my feet. “Good boy,” I slur. “You’ll look so spooky in the graveyard. Ten out of ten ambiance.”
My neighbors are asleep—cowards—but if anyone peeked out their window right now, they’d see me: October Halloway, barefoot, half-dressed in a skimpy midnight silk nightgown with lace that looks like spiderwebs, dragging a wobbling cart of arts and crafts toward St. Jude’s Cemetery like I’m headed to a PTA meeting in Hell.
“Mom said Halloween wouldn’t last forever,” I mutter, hiccupping around my words. “Well, guess what, Mom? I’m making it last forever-ever. I’m giving the dead a goddamn annual parade. I’ll make a holiday to celebrate the holiday, dammit!”
The cemetery gates loom ahead, iron bars crooked with rust, padlock long gone. I heave the cart up the curb, nearly tipping it over, and then salute the shadowy angel statue perched by the entrance. “Evening, sweetheart. You’re looking very fallen from heaven but make it slutty tonight.”
The angel doesn’t respond. Rude.
I stumble inside, dragging my cart of chaos down the gravel path, past rows of cracked headstones and wilted flowers. The moon hangs fat and white overhead, spotlighting me like I’m center stage in some amateur burlesque show nobody bought tickets to.
“Okay, my spooky babies,” I announce to the rows of graves, throwing my arms wide. “Tonight, October Halloway is here to bring you crafts, cocktails, and possibly light voyeurism. You’re welcome.”
I drag the cart past the baby section—too sad, not festive enough—and deeper into the crooked rows until I find my favorites. You always have to pick favorites. Cemeteries are like classrooms: some desks just have better vibes.
The first one has a cracked angel leaning against it, wings chipped, face half-erased by time.
The headstone reads: Silas Boone. 1900–1930.
I press my palm against the letters, cool and rough under my fingers.
“Silas,” I slur. “That’s a cowboy name. Or a pirate.
Either way, you’d look amazing in leather.
But I’m going to call you Bonehead. It fits. ”
The second one is newer, but still forgotten—gray marble streaked with mildew, the engraving sharp as a knife: Declan Cross.
1967–1994. “Declan!” I croon, throwing my arms wide.
“Irish and tragic. You probably had eighties eyeliner and daddy issues. My type exactly. You’re definitely a Skully.
Fuck, you’d probably skull-fuck me into the afterlife, and I’d only thank you for it. ”
The third one is half-swallowed by ivy, its inscription carved in looping, old-fashioned script: Sebastian Vale.
1811–1845. I brush back the leaves, giggling when a slug squishes under my nail.
“Sebastian,” I whisper reverently, licking my lips.
“Oh, honey. You sound like you wrote poetry about blood and velvet curtains. You sexy little corpse you. I’m going to call you…
Marrow. You seem like the type to eat pussy like you mean it.
Could probably suck the marrow straight from my bones.
Does that make sense? Oh well. I like it! ”
I stagger back, spread my arms to all three, and beam. “Congratulations, boys! You’ve been selected for October’s Haunted Makeover Extravaganza.”
I start unloading the cart. Crepe streamers.
Glitter. Skulls made of foam. I duct-tape fairy lights around Bonehead’s angel like it’s a goddamn Christmas tree.
Skully gets a sparkly banner that says Cheers, Witches!
across his grave. Marrow? Oh, Marrow gets the full treatment—candles lined at his base, a plastic cauldron filled with candy corn offerings, and the sticky Ouija board propped proudly against his stone like a diploma.
By the time I’m finished, it looks less like a cemetery and more like the seasonal aisle at Party City mated with a fever dream.
I spread my blanket right in the center of my little death cul-de-sac, tugging it flat over the grass like Martha Stewart if she’d been exhumed mid-project. Black velvet, trimmed in orange sequins. Classy. The kind of picnic blanket you’d want your pallbearers to lower you down on.
I drop onto it, legs splayed, giggling so hard my mascara runs. “See, Mom? Stability! Look at me, building community. I’m basically a volunteer.”
The graves don’t argue. Which means I win.
“Okay, boys,” I announce, cracking open my pumpkin-shaped Tupperwares. “Dinner is served.”
I lay everything out with the seriousness of a sommelier.
Deviled eggs with tiny plastic pitchforks jabbed into them.
Finger sandwiches cut with bone-shaped cookie cutters.
A tray of cupcakes slathered in black frosting until they look like funeral dirt mounds.
I even brought a bottle of Vampire Tears—vodka mixed with cherry soda—in a thermos, because a lady has to hydrate.
Bonehead gets the deviled eggs. “Protein,” I say solemnly, balancing a fork on top of his cracked headstone.
“You look like you'd be massive, all muscles and protein shakes if you lived today. But not in an annoying way that says you only care about the gym. I bet you’d pick me dandelions and tell me how pretty I am.”
Skully gets the finger sandwiches, all lined up like little tombs at the base of his marble slab. “For my charming goofball. Who’d probably laugh at the size and eat them like fun sized snickers while I bounce on your dick.”
Marrow gets the cupcakes and the thermos. I tuck the cup of cherry-soda-vodka right up against his name, brushing the ivy aside so it looks like he’s drinking. “For you, my velvet darling. I bet you’d lick frosting off my thighs and call it poetry. All silver-tongued and ready to make love to me.”
An owl hoots in approval as fog drifts across the graves until it looks like the boys are swimming in mist. I beam, my head swimming just as thick.
“See?” I croon, toasting the three of them with my plastic goblet covered in glitter skulls. “This is what real connection looks like. None of that Tinder bullshit. No one is ghosting me—unless it’s literally.”
Bonehead stays stoic. Skully stares like marble does. Marrow’s ivy rustles in the breeze, which I choose to interpret as applause.
I giggle and flop back onto the blanket, feet kicking lazily in the air. “God, you’re all so quiet. Don’t be shy now. Though, maybe I like you like this.”
My voice softens without my permission, drifting out into the smoke. “You can’t leave. You can’t run screaming. You just…stay.”
The graves don’t answer, of course, but the silence feels heavy, expectant. Like they’re waiting for something. I sit cross-legged on the velvet blanket, a cupcake in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other. A true artist at work.
“Okay, Bonehead,” I say through a mouthful of black frosting, “don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like the kind of guy who died under a horse. Not like…kinky. Just clumsy.” I snort frosting through my nose and slap a foam bat onto his headstone with a wet thud. It sticks crooked. Perfect.
Skully gets a rhinestone mustache duct-taped under his engraved name.
“Tragic hot boys always have mustaches in their ghost form, right? I read that in Cosmo. Or maybe it was MournHub.” I pause, licking stray sprinkles from my thumb.
“I run MournHub, did you know that? My obituary blog. Went viral. Some people thought it was porn. Which, honestly? Fair. Death is kind of sexy.”
I lean toward Marrow, voice dropping conspiratorial. “You’d get it, though. You look like you wrote poetry about menstrual blood on lace doilies. In fact-” I grab my Sharpie, uncap it with my teeth, and scrawl a heart right on the ivy-covered marble. Inside, I write: S + O 4EVER. Then I giggle.
The fog continues rolling in in waves, like it’s choking on me—or trying to choke me.
I tear open the bag of glitter and just…throw it. Everywhere. Onto the blanket, onto the headstones, onto myself. A rain of sparkling chaos. “There!” I crow, arms spread wide. “Now it’s a party. Now it’s a rave.”
The vodka-cherry mix sloshes as I pour it into plastic skull shot glasses and set them carefully at each grave. “For you, Bonehead. And you, Skully. And you, Marrow darling. Don’t say I never buy the boys a round.”
The mist thickens around my ankles, curling like cats. My smile wobbles but I force it wider. “You know what’s funny?” I ask, voice catching. “Mom thinks I’m unstable. That I can’t keep a man. But the truth is…” I tip back my skull cup, vodka burning. “The truth is men can’t keep me.”
I laugh too loud, then hiccup, then slap a crepe streamer across Skully’s grave like a sash. “Homecoming King! Congratulations, you little corpse slut.”
The Ouija board slides off of Marrow’s headstone with a thunk, pink plastic planchette rattling across the blanket. I stare at it, frosting on my lips, vodka sloshing in my stomach.
“Ohhh,” I coo, eyes going slightly blurry. “You boys wanna play a game?”
I pull it towards me until the Ouija board lands in my lap, pink planchette rattling across the velvet until it bumps my thigh and rests there like a cat begging to be stroked. My breath fogs the glossy plastic. “Alright, gentlemen. Let’s talk.”